


Sportsmanship

by HC_Weatherfield



Category: Addams Family - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Addams Family (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Pugsley is into it, Quidditch, all Addamses are sappy romantics, and Wednesday Addams doesn't care for sports, and untreated PTSD, celebrity charity matches, harry potter has anger issues, mild violence (no serious injury depicted), that's it that's the story, which he self-medicates with Quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:55:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24773485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HC_Weatherfield/pseuds/HC_Weatherfield
Summary: Harry Potter has anger issues, and has chosen celebrity Quidditch matches as his outlet. Unfortunately, that means most people aren't willing to play against him--or even on a team with him.Pugsley Addams is a longtime admirer of Harry's, and he has no trouble assembling a team with a taste for danger. Let the wooing begin.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Pugsley Addams
Comments: 15
Kudos: 322
Collections: Coda





	Sportsmanship

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings from quarantine hell, lovelies! I have a worrying cough, so what better time to indulge in a little Addams family fun?
> 
> I'm not a fan of sports, and actually struggle to write Quidditch, but this idea has been living rent-free in my mind for a long time, so I tried.
> 
> I'm already planning a sequel in which Wednesday finds her own witchy love, so please comment with thoughts and suggestions!

Harry Potter had anger issues, it was well known. Rita Skeeter may have been off the mark about a lot, but not, it seemed, that. The more charitable amongst Wizarding Britain’s population attributed Harry’s emotional problems to the mountainous pile of trauma that had been his childhood and adolescence. Then again, those less inclined toward empathy thought he ought to get over it already. 

No matter how much they felt for Harry, though, there were very few people willing to play Quidditch against him. Or even _alongside_ him. Having been to a Wizarding therapist for the three months he could stand it, Harry had decided that he needed a “healthy outlet” for his emotions, had declared Quidditch to be that outlet, and called it a day. The result was that Britain’s best Quidditch player was also its most dangerous one. 

With Harry in the air, fouls abounded. He was a blur of daredevilry, and if anyone got in his way whilst they were zooming around the pitch, well, that was their problem. If another Seeker made an honest go of challenging him for the Snitch, they had a great chance of ending up in the hospital to complement their certainty of losing. And with all the time-outs and injuries and his general lack of team spirit, Harry’s teammates were scarcely happier than his opponents. 

The public loved it, of course. Wizarding Britain would have been shocked to discover how much it resembled Muggle Britain in its hot-and-cold attitude toward celebrities and its love of violent sports. Watching the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice cause broken bones and bruised egos amongst Britain’s, and sometimes all of Europe’s, rich and famous was the height of entertainment. 

So it was that, while tickets sold out for every charity game that featured Harry Potter, it was increasingly difficult to find the other thirteen players needed to fill out the bill. 

Luckily, Pugsley was so rich that no one in his family had even bothered to count their gold for more than two centuries. That made him a sort of celebrity in his own right. And, having spent his last year of education at Hogwarts after being kicked out of every Wizarding, Witchery, Necromantic, or otherwise occult school in America, Pugsley had Quidditch experience. In fact, he was a great fan of the sport. 

He was a great fan of Harry Potter, as well. 

When he'd come home following his graduation from Hogwarts and immediately announced to his family that he intended to meet Harry and, as quickly as possible, make him an Addams, they all went to see him in a charity match over the summer. The approval was unanimous. 

“My!” Father had said delightedly, “Such chaos!”

“And the look in his eyes,” Mother had added. “So _tortured_.” 

“He’s resilient,” Wednesday had said. “How many poisoning attempts did you say he’d survived, Pugsley?” 

“Oh,” said Pugsley faux-casually, “I doubt even he’s keeping track at this point.” 

After a stretch of approving silence, Pubert piped up. “How long d’you think it’ll take me to learn to outrun him?” 

“Hopefully a long time,” Pugsley chortled. “I wouldn’t want him to experience the bliss of death without me, after all.” 

“I can already outrun _you_ ,” Pubert had sneered. 

In fact he could not, but the ambition was becoming in an Addams. Pugsley had mussed his little brother’s cherubic blond curls fondly. 

  


It had been a few years since that day, and the Addamses had spent much of the time plotting. The result was that Pugsley had become notorious in Britain, both for his skill as an amateur Quidditch player and for the string of violent crimes nobody could quite pin on him. That, combined with his money and apparent lack of fear, was plenty to convince the board that he would be a perfectly adequate option to lead the team opposing Harry’s. 

He did not, perhaps, have a traditional seeker’s build, but then, the last “traditional” seeker to play against Harry has developed a sudden and lasting fear of heights, so perhaps this was for the best. 

The rest of the team was all Addamses: cousins Mania, Sinuous, and Graspar as chasers, twin cousins Cliff and Crag as beaters, and an implacable Wednesday in the position of Keeper. 

When the teams met on the field, Harry grinned. 

“Love a challenge,” he said to Pugsley when they approached each other to shake hands. 

Pugsley’s heart fluttered. 

“So do I,” he said simply, and Harry grinned and gave him a once-over that made him feel positively _weak_. He’d studied up on Harry, and knew he wasn’t shallow; the people he’d dated had all kinds of looks. What he seemed to like was a certain warmth, and fierceness. Pugsley had those things, but he also considered himself nice enough to look at: comfortably chubby, tall and strong, with bright eyes and neat dark hair. Excellent for a cuddle or a good manhandling. Preferably a bit of both. 

But the game was beginning now. This was no time for navel-gazing. This was a time for doing his utmost to knock Harry Potter off his broom. 

At the sound of the referee’s whistle--in fact, almost simultaneously with it, as if he possessed some eldritch athletic precognition--Harry was in the air and speeding head-on toward Pugsley. It was incredible! He’d risen into the air so fast he may as well have Apparated! Pugsley had a quick eye--he had to, since Wednesday had dominion over the spiders--and he needed it to register Harry’s precipitous flight. Whip-quick, and the end of broomstick aimed straight at Pugsley’s nose. Now _this_ was a game! With a rictus grin, Pugsley barreled forward. 

By the time that Harry realized his aggression had not intimidated Pugsley, it was almost too late. Their broomsticks were nearly touching, the two young men dangerously close to grievous injury and to each other, when Harry gritted his teeth and pulled away. Pugsley tasted the slightest hint of disappointment in the back of his throat, though he knew it wouldn’t really be satisfying if it was over so soon. The waiting would make it sweeter, as Uncle Fester was always reminding him. 

Without another thought, he was in pursuit. Harry had the faster broom, and was the lighter and more maneuverable of the two. But an Addams did not reach adulthood without some practical experience in running for his life, and Harry _was_ Pugsley’s life. So it was an even race. 

They pulled up neck and neck, Pugsley sticking as close as possible, so there was nothing but an electric millimetre of air between them. They shot forward, faster than two poisoned blow darts, representing a hazard to the other players to rival an extra set of bludgers. They careened hither and yon, breaking up chaser formations, traumatizing Harry’s usually stolid Keeper (the hale and mean-spirited Cormac McLaggen, not Addams material but still a subject of Pugsley’s idle admiration on many past occasions). At one point Pugsley’s foot clipped the top of a spectator’s head; he hoped she enjoyed a good concussion as much as Grandmama always did. 

It was an exciting experience in every conceivable way. The danger quite aside--for that felt as natural as breathing to any Addams, and sometimes more so, depending on their predilections--there was the thrill of the chase; the pride Pugsley felt as he demonstrated his chosen mate’s capabilities to the watching Addamses; and, more than anything, the incredible savage tension that came with Harry’s proximity. 

Harry Potter was a wizard of awful power. Pugsley had known that, of course; everybody knew that. But knowing and _feeling_ were different things. This close to Harry, beside him in a moment of absolute freedom, Pugsley could _feel_ Harry’s power in his blood and guts. He wondered if it had been the same for others who flew opposite Harry. Probably, but Pugsley liked to think he was capable of a special level of appreciation. After all, he had learned to worship at the altar of Ishtar from his father, a true master of the art of romance. 

Pugsley knew he could capture Harry’s heart. He just needed to make enough of an impression to get the chance. Speaking of which...Snitch. He should be looking for it. 

Or should he? _Looking_ for the snitch--honestly, was he thinking like an Addams? No, he decided, glancing ahead to where Wednesday was weaving string around the goalpoasts in spiderweb patterns. He was _not_ thinking like an Addams. An Addams was not a follower. Why was he tailing Harry? It should be Harry trying to catch up with _him_. 

Instantaneously resolved, Pugsley swerved right, cutting Harry off and forcing him into a bruising hairpin turn. Casting his vivid eyes every which way, Harry used the momentum to execute a controlled spin in search of the Snitch. But Pugsley wasn’t interested in the Snitch. He was interested in Harry’s attention, which he now had. 

Determined to keep it, he swooped below Harry, clipping the end of his broom in a move designed to spin him out of control. Indeed, it sent Harry into a nosedive, but he wasn’t the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice for nothing. Clinging close to his broom, he moved almost imperceptibly from his 90-degree collision course with the ground to a comfortably skimming parallel. Adaptable as water, was this man--and so flexible! 

Pugsley led Harry around the pitch for a while, cutting him off and running circles around him where he could, admiring Harry’s athletic prowess and quick instincts. And then, after several minutes of this dance, Harry got _angry_. 

It was beautiful. A flash in those green eyes and a dark cloud on his brow to match the lightning of his scar. For this, Pugsley owed a prayer of thanks to Thor. 

So enchanted was he with this sight, he forgot to dodge as Harry rammed into him head-on. A rapturous explosion of pain! With a cry, Pugsley wrapped Harry in his arms so that they plummeted toward the green together. 

He was so caught up in the romance of the moment that he barely registered the flash of gold by Harry’s ear, hardly noticed himself reaching for it. 

They landed hard, Pugsley’s soft body cushioning the blow somewhat so that neither of them were injured (though Pugsley knew he would have some lovely bruises in the morning). Harry rolled off of him, but settled so near that their arms were still touching as they caught their breath. Presently, Pugsley noticed the sensation of something struggling in his clenched fist, and lifted it so he could see. 

The Snitch. With the old Addams luck, he’d caught the little bastard when he wasn't even trying. 

Grinning, he turned his head to look at Harry. Who was much closer than expected. And staring at him with wonder and not a little heat. And who--so quickly that Pugsley barely had time to store away a reverent memory of that expression--was on top of Pugsley and kissing him, violently, all teeth. 

The audience erupted in cries of confusion, outrage, and approval; Pugsley heard the vague din of the commentator’s voice but couldn’t make out the words. Not that he was trying very hard. He was too busy memorizing every moment of his first kiss with the love of his life. 

When Harry finally pulled away, licking a bit of blood from his swollen lower lip, Pugsley reached up to stroke a worshipful hand through his wild curls. 

“Marry me,” he said breathlessly. 

Harry laughed, and it was true joy, pure and alive in a way Pugsley had rarely experienced. He knew without a doubt that he wanted to hear that sound every day for the rest of his life. 

“Take me to dinner,” said Harry softly, voice gritty with exertion, “and fuck me all night, and in the morning I’ll think about it.” 

“All right,” said Pugsley matter-of-factly, because this sounded entirely reasonable to him, “but only if you agree to have lunch with the family tomorrow. You don’t know the meaning of ‘deviled eggs’ until you’ve had Grandmama’s.”

**Author's Note:**

> I only aspire to please Charles Addams' spirit and to offend J.K. Rowling...but I hope you enjoyed yourselves, too!


End file.
